


sounds like a melody

by onebreathyboi



Series: fics i make out of songs [1]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Character Death, DW he is fine, Deaf George, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Romantic writing, Selectively Mute Dream, god dream, moderate warning for some blood, mortal george, nothing graphic, please this is something im really proud of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29841909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onebreathyboi/pseuds/onebreathyboi
Summary: When a beautiful mortal and a god fall in love.British laughter dances on tan skin, each vibration tickling the delicate hairs that rest there. Each light golden strand moving with a gentle sway, leaning back and forth with the breath of both bodies.This was a test of how poetic I could write, inspired loosely from eros and psyche but not really. I apologize for the shortness.I'm the author of "vacivity filled only by your dodrantal love" as well, so check that out?
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: fics i make out of songs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2206119
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	sounds like a melody

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm the author of "vacivity filled only by your dodrantal love" so, if you've read that you might like this and vice versa? This entire thing was almost entirely a test of how poetic I could write, and I think I did really well? I apologize for how short it is.  
> George is deaf and Dream is selectively mute. It makes sense in the fic, I really hope I wrote those two traits well. Feel free to leave me how I could get better in the comments or on twitter! My twitter link is at the bottom!  
> Enjoy!
> 
> based off of [ sounds like a melody by alphaville ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0CCcHWPuqkE&ab_channel=Alphaville-Topic)

British laughter dances on tan skin, each vibration tickling the delicate hairs that rest there. Each light golden strand moving with a gentle sway, leaning back and forth with the breath of both bodies. 

They lay there in the sunlight, golden and illuminating and drenching everything it touches. The infinite chase between the sun and the moon, their fox and rabbit game that never ends, forces the sun slowly through the shutters of that one bedroom apartment. 

George sits in ichor, bathed in the blood of gods, though gods dare not to compare to the pale man. Gods are untouchable while George begs the question with his very existence; can one be touched enough to make up for the sins of a previous life? Can human hands smooth his skin enough to make their conscious run milk-white? 

When the gods shaped his body, they seemed to compose him out of unfinished symphonies, sewn his hair from the very fabric they adorn, formed his bones from unending beauty, something too elegant to fathom breaking. 

Dream surrounds himself in gods but dares not to look directly at George, for fear of disrespecting a truly holy being. The gentle dip of boney hips pool strands of sunlight into their crevice, the warmth embracing George while begging for forgiveness, regretting ever having touched another man's skin. 

Each shuddering breath that fills Dreams’ immortal lungs on the verge of being exhaled as an apology, sorry for venturing to touch the ethereal skin before, guilty for clutching the glowing skin and making it his. Purple marks blending seamlessly into white, littering his thighs and trailing along the landscape of his mortal body. 

A god bowing to a human, kissing every delicate bone and strand of hair with unworthy lips, the real body holding ichor conforming to human blood. George embodies prayers, their desperate wanting, their calm chaos, their unrelenting hope that someone listens. He lives their desire, breathes their anguish, swallows the calamity, becomes their need. 

Both men make no move to follow the sun, allowing the sunlight to highlight dust swirling through the stale air. The mortal curls further into the god, returning to the man who embodies the light and sky. George inhales deeply, breathing the origin of air, drowning his lungs in the direct creator of the life-giving substance. 

The immortal chuckle rumbles through the core of George, the very oxygen in his blood dancing with every vibration made from their master, desperate to flee his mortal body and return to their creator. 

Dream seems to realize his flaw at Georges’ poorly concealed shudder, lifting his tan hands to twist and bend, forming signs with the fingers that continue to move the universe's winds. His long digits sign _’sorry’_ , mouth moving in tandem without releasing a sound.

The mute god smiles when George whispers his forgiveness, settling back into the comforting embrace of his mortal lover, composing in his head the end to Georges’ symphony. 

The gods refuse to create a whole being, watching each human struggle with their flaws and bicker centuries old arguments. The brunet lacks a melody, stuck in an unending loop of second violins strumming the harmony, caught between measures and stuck in the time between rests. 

Every breath adding notes that mean nothing with a melody, remaining uncompleted to stay unheard by human ears. His muscles play like out of tune strings as he sits up, the fibers of his body moving with the rhythmic strum of the accompanying double bases that Dream composed. 

The pale hands, recently kissed and thoroughly loved, spin worlds of infinite imagination with every flex of slim fingers. He signs to the god, _’What are you doing? I can hear you thinking,’_ every shift of digits mesmerizes the god.

 _’Composing.’_ He signs back, as if composing masterpieces presents itself as the obvious answer. George sits cross-legged on the foot of the bed, back facing the forgiving sunlight to view the god. The lighting illuminates his figure, outlining every line and bump in blinding reverence, body glowing the same ichor that flows through Dreams’ veins. 

How ever does this mortal manage to look more ethereal than he? 

That same laugh from before sounds, weaving swiftly through the air and settling deeply in divine lungs, filling his every breath with the clarity of happiness. The gods seem to favour this mortal, as the glaringly hot sun only licks gently at his pale skin, soothing the creamy expanse with devoted warmth. The soft rays nuzzle at his feet and turn over like spoiled dogs, sparing him the pain of sunburn without sacrificing his warm comfort. 

Only Dream, the man who lives with the sun, knows of this small act. The vengeful rage of the fiery god who controls the suns quells only for George, placated enough to give and give and give his merciful love to the man who never seems to notice. 

A small omission, to not enlighten George to his divine favour, and continue to let him revel in his luck. Since birth, a sunburn has never kissed his skin so harshly, has never reddened his body, has never caused a single cell to peel and crack and fall. 

The night in which George thrives never proves too dark, never covers the stars in revenge, has only ever allowed him to see the endless expanse of the galaxy without so much as a thought. 

The ocean licks his fingers for pardon, kisses his feet in absolution, shrouds him in rocking waves that give and never take. 

And Dream, the man who is himself the air, has never so much as brushed him with a harsh breeze, has never chapped his lips or stung his eyes. Every gust and breath that George experiences laces with devoted love, never to cause even the slightest inconvenience. 

The immortal considers himself lucky, to be an integral part in Georges’ life, to have a piece of his body in the male at all times, to be inhaled and exhaled to be inhaled again. To feed George air as clean as the air of gods, to rid his lungs of pollution and save him from smog. 

A mortal, with which all the gods wait on hand and foot, who chose to love the flighty nature of air. To turn down the passionate sun, reject the gentle waves, sleep through the night, and choose the air to float on. 

To refuse the earth, to cough when offered unending health, to stay mortal when offered immortality just to breathe the air that Dream lays specially for him? The luck god himself cries jealousy, hatred, throwing a tantrum while keeping George the luckiest man alive. 

Obsessively possessive thoughts rattle through the british blinded haze, piercing seen yet unspoken blur of self-deprecating thoughts, to be graced with the presence of a man too beautiful to bother being born with hearing. 

The mortal continues to refuse the gift of sound, covering his ears when Dream attempts to kiss them clean, shakes his head when offered the gift he was crudely born without. 

_’I don’t want to hear a world without you,’_ Those god-kissed fingers birth imagination at their core with a flex, breathing new life into the words that are said without breath. George licked his happy tears so gently, carefully avoiding swallowing the bountiful liquid, lest he ruin the gift of mortality. 

_’Starlight, please. Please, don’t leave, be immortal with me,’_ Those tender hands capture slender pale digits, kissing open palms with fervor seen only in men begging for rapture, sitting at the steps of God's house and pleading for lenience, departure from sin. The amalgamation of amnesty, personified godly guilt and forged to bless the gods with something to believe in.

 _’You have me for many years, beloved.’_ Those spindly fingers spun lies, false reassurances and useless forgiveness. Nothing short of eternity proves long enough when faced with admiring beauty incarnate. 

For Dream, crafted with the first breath of the universe, molded at the birthplace of heaven, to be soothed by the presence of perfection incarnate. For every god, save for one, to be soothed by a brunet British man. 

Venus demonstrated her power, soaking the sun in blood, polluting the night sky, crashing waves heavier than Dreams’ heart, bathing herself in misfortune knowing that she manifested beauty once again and beautiful gods live forever. A slick knife found its way into his untouched gut. 

The beloved pale skin lost the last shred of colour it held, fingers limp and the untold stories never to bless observant eyes. Every soul on the god-blessed planet inhaled unsteading breaths as the mute god sobbed, his sepharic loyalty broken. Every inhale heavy lead, every exhale a desperate cough, the breezes whipping anger with blackening skies. 

Teardrops spotted the mortal, soaking into expansive skin, rolling through valleys of bones where the sun used to pool, tangling into hair that remained untouched by winds, dripping into quiet ears and flowing over devilishly purple bruises that will never heal. 

Peppering kisses over eyelids holding unseeing brown eyes, blank as the slate he had been cleaned of, mouthing apologies with each press of unworthy lips. 

The wet blood that pooled around the pair drinking back into the brunet, graceless slush of red returning to its rightful owner, tainting the crimson gold with every second until the ichor burned brighter than Dreams’ own. 

_’Starlight,’_ Pink lips mouthed, tan hands gripping the healing form in case he slips again, clutching the blue shirt fabric with weak strength. 

_’Guess I am,’_ Slender fingers signed again, stories to be told written in the practiced ease of bent digits. Wet laughter emerged from the starlight, humming along tan skin, dancing along the blond hairs like it never stopped, like the laughter had not been taken from the world, like the lungs never halted their working. 

The starlight jingled through the room, jovial, happy, alive. It sounds like a melody.

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope you enjoyed it and thank you for reading this far. Comments and kudos fuel me!  
> [ my twitter! ](https://twitter.com/skoonk7)  
> Again, check out my other fic? [ vacivity filled only by your dodrantal love ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28592790/chapters/70075554)


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